


Flock

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:05:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>knb week day 3: bond</p></blockquote>





	Flock

There’s a certain unspoken agreement hovering in the air, like an echo that should have long since died out, something so blatant even Yamazaki can pick up on it, that they’re going to end this in style. Were they a team full of wholesome guys who loved sports, who practiced religiously because they thought they knew hard work would get them everywhere they wanted to be, they’d be pledging to do their best and drag their asses farther they should go because they’re the heroes of their own story—but they’re a team full of pragmatists and villains, and they damn well know it. They’re not heroes; they’re not getting a miraculous second wind when they’re down for the count; they work hard but they’re not going to credit all their success to that (or make up some shit about how their magical teamwork will win the day and the other team has better players but because they don’t play together—okay, none of them can finish that sentence with a straight face, even Hanamiya).

And Seto’s seen it all; he’s seen the team go from a bunch of lazy prep school kids padding their college applications with another extracurricular to cohesive cogs in a strategic, efficient machine under Hanamiya—if any other team claims to beat them because of superior teamwork, they’re lying. No other team has a coach who actually plays out on the court with them; no other team balances the minutes like they do; no other team has as blurred a line between the first man and the twelfth.

They don’t play this way because Hanamiya’s paying lip service to equality or because he really cares if anyone here other than him is actively wasting time sitting on the bench. It’s as much a part of the strategy as anything else; keep the parts relatively interchangeable and keep the starters rested. Injury is a real risk with their style of play, a misplaced fake fall might turn real and they might enrage the other team enough to get hit or tripped (and they might take it just to get the foul). They can’t let their bench be less-than-ready, and, as a result, the bench players are engaged and loyal, ready to follow the plan and let Hanamiya play them better than Seto plays his ukulele (and it’s amazing how stupid the other coaches are not to do this, to burn out their starters and leave the backups so woefully unprepared and resentful—but their loss is Kirisaki Daiichi’s gain, after all).

But even so they’re aware they may not win; when they find out the schedule they’re fairly certain they won’t. Despite the strategy, the preparation, they just aren’t that good—Hanamiya aside, none of them is crazy-talented or highly skilled, and even if one or two of them was, they still aren’t Touou. They’re not going to write the game off before they play it, and they’re not going to not try (and they sure as hell aren’t going to let Aomine and Wakamatsu just dunk all over them). But if they’re going down now, they’re going down swinging harder than a wrecking ball on its release.

At least, that’s the unspoken plan.

“Too bad Imayoshi’s already graduated,” Seto says, and Hanamiya reaches up to smack him—Seto ducks out of the way just in time, and Hanamiya’s hand comes within about a centimeter and a half of Yamazaki’s cheek.

“Whoops. My hand slipped.”

“Pity,” says Furuhashi. “You almost hit Yamazaki.”

“Don’t I fucking know it,” Yamazaki grumbles.

They could take that string of conversation and unwind it like Theseus in the labyrinth; in the past they have (this could be a replica of a hundred exchanges they’ve had since the beginning of high school) and yet. And yet, they leave it; they let the uneasy silence drift over them; even the snap of Hara’s gum seems quieter than usual.

* * *

Seto doesn’t sleep. He could; he almost tries, but he’s far too interested in the game (and he can always make it up by sleeping in class tomorrow, and tomorrow they most likely won’t have basketball and that’s a whole extra few hours into which he can cram some uninterrupted rest). It’s not just because it might be the last one; it’s because the matchup itself is interesting.

There’s no Imayoshi to get Hanamiya riled up, but that’s beside the point. Touou is a good team with good players and a hell of a schemer in Momoi. Harasawa can take as much credit as he wants for leading the team but it’s obvious to everyone who’s actually calling the shots on Touou’s side.

But as good as she is, Momoi can’t control the impulsiveness of her players. She can use it to her advantage, but so can they. If they’re relying on Hara to try and harness it, their luck probably won’t be so great, but maybe Hanamiya has some kind of master plan he’s not telling anyone about (although, from the way he’s grinding his teeth on the bench next to Seto he really doesn’t, and for a second Seto wonders if he should ask Hanamiya just to get a rise out of him.

Hara snaps his gum in Sakurai’s face again before saying something; he’s just out of earshot but it’s probably along the lines of how puny and weak Sakurai seems, how he probably can’t hit shots from half-court, and it’s piss-poor bait. Then again, Sakurai might end up taking it anyway; it’s not like that’s guaranteed to stop him.

Hara clearly hadn’t considered that he might make the shot. Typical. Hanamiya throws his clipboard to the floor.

“Careful,” says Seto. “You might hurt something.”

Hanamiya looks like he might try to smack him again, only this time he wouldn’t even pretend to pretend it’s an accident. But just as his hand twitches, he’s distracted by Sakurai yet again.

“Your shooting guard couldn’t make a shot from the free throw line.”

“What’s that, you little punk?” says Yamazaki. “Why don’t you foul me and we’ll see about that?”

“Oi!” Wakamatsu shouts, loud enough to be heard from under the hoop. “Don’t do it!”

They’ve all forgotten about Uotani, the first-year backup point guard, who’s still holding the ball. No one’s guarding him; no one’s paying attention at all, and slowly he dribbles back to beyond the three-point line, and then he shoots. Nothing but net. And when Matsumoto reaches down to get the ball, he manages to accidentally”elbow Wakamatsu in the side. Nice.

Five minutes later, it’s not so nice. It’s hard even for Seto to keep up with Aomine even just from watching; he’s stealing and shooting and passing his way into giving Touou a fifteen-point lead; Furuhashi’s tried to elbow him but all he’s gotten rom it is his third foul.

“Kentarou,” says Hanamiya. “We’re going in.”

“We are?”

Matsumoto’s been their only okay player; he’s managed to trip a couple of the Touou players and get away with it, and he’d almost blocked Aomine (although that had been purely an accident).

“Yes. You’re in for Furuhashi.”

Seto supposes he’s not much of a traditional center anyway.

The spider web is a dismal failure; Aomine’s too fast to be caught in it and even when Seto’s blocking the passing lanes it doesn’t matter; he can do it all by himself. They aren’t losing ground as quickly, and they’re actually scoring a bit, but it doesn’t really help.

Hanamiya puts in the whole backup squad for the second quarter; he puts Hara and Matsumoto and Yamazaki in for the third. They’re losing worse and worse; even when Touou pulls Aomine the gap doesn’t start to narrow. They’re running out of time, and Seto can feel the kind of urgency in the air, the horrible desperation that it’s starting to smell like (or maybe that’s just sweat). And it’s starting to make him itch to get back out there, to redirect passes and block the ball so hard his arm bruises, and who the fuck does his mind think he is right now?

“We could go out there and play clean,” says Hara. “They’d freak the fuck out.”

“Wakamatsu would,” says Seto. “The others might not care, and Momoi would figure it out.”

“How do you know?” says Furuhashi, probably loud enough for her to hear on the other bench.

“Whatever,” says Hanamiya, tightly holding the two halves of the broken clipboard together. “Kentarou and I will go back in. They’re putting in their reserves.”

Long after it’s due time, but that’s the way it usually goes.

“Usual strategy?” says Hara.

Hanamiya gives him a look (as if he even has to ask).

Matsumoto wins the tipoff; the ball quickly goes to Hanamiya and he doesn’t even have to say anything for Seto to set up in position. He follows Hanamiya’s path, figures out his plan; he blocks the proper passing lanes. It’s ridiculously easy for Hanamiya to drive in, make his layup, and kick the Touou forward in the side on the way down.

He steals it back on the next play, too; this time he passes to Yamazaki who downs a neat shot from the perimeter and they’re now four points closer. The clock is running; Seto’s palms are itching; this is never going to work. Even though it’s Hanamiya, it’s never going to work.

Then they score on the next play, too; Seto stomps on the Touou guard’s foot and he howls in pain but the refs are barely paying attention because Hanamiya’s subbing back in Furuhashi.

It’s the first time all five of them have been out together all game; even if they’re playing the clueless Touou scrubs it couldn’t be more comfortable. Six points in a row have made the Touou players scared and sloppy; they foul Hanamiya (only because he lets them) and he sinks every free throw and they’re climbing. They’re still double digits behind, but these kids are falling into the spider web like particularly stupid flies, and all they have to do is tighten the silk a little bit tighter.

That is, until Touou switches Aomine back in. All they need to do is maintain the gap, prolong the plays, eat the time; Aomine himself is still enough to go toe-to-toe with Hanamiya, to steal the ball and shoot it himself.

They’ve already lost, but Hanamiya keeps them all in the game. And that’s how they go down, by eighteen points with all five starters on the floor.

* * *

No one teases Hanamiya about how red his eyes are or how long he’s taking in the shower when normally Hara would be flipping through his set of masturbation jokes like a deck of cards. Furuhashi’s own eyes are slightly pink, although he’s loudly proclaiming something about late autumn hay fever that no one’s buying but they don’t bother to discourage him, either. Seto dozes off in the locker room, lying on one of those awful benches; Yamazaki doesn’t kick him that hard this time to wake him up but Seto doesn’t have the heart to tell him he wasn’t really asleep.

The first-years and second-years shuffle out, on their way home no doubt; Matsumoto leaves after them to catch his train (and no one says anything about how slumped his shoulders are or how he’s suddenly developed a runny nose) and then they wait, quiet again. Hanamiya dresses quickly; his hair is still wet and he looks like a half-drowned kitten and it’s a little ridiculous, even for him. Seto slings his arm around Hanamiya’s shoulder oh-so-casually, and Hanamiya gives him a look but doesn’t move away.

“That was fun, hmm?” says Hara, but it’s empty and Seto can hear his voice almost crack like a cell phone screen falling face to the pavement.

“Look at that ugly girl’s dress,” says Furuhashi, pointing wildly at no one in particular—among the people in that direction is a girl wearing a dress of no particular note, but Yamazaki seizes the topic like a hungry vulture grabs roadkill.

“Her ankles are way too fat for it.”

“And her arms are too skinny, she should wear sleeves.”

Hanamiya’s not saying anything, but Seto tightens his arm around his shoulders and he can feel Hanamiya sag against him almost gratefully (as if Hanamiya was ever grateful for anything). Hara snaps his gum and pulls out the rest of his pack.

“Anyone want?”

Yamazaki takes a piece and they round the corner; the late-afternoon sun is shining between the shadows of the glass office buildings and right into their eyes, and if anyone needs an excuse for watery eyes this is it. Not that they would—not that they’d walk into the sunset like a troupe of retired adventurers or some shit like that, anyway. That would just be stupid.

**Author's Note:**

> knb week day 3: bond


End file.
